Fragile Like A River Of Sand
by arctique48
Summary: Founder Fic The days of Merlin and his kind are over. Times are changing. Repost.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR**

**AN: **I deleted this. And then I decided, who cares? I like this fic, so it's going back up. Yay! for spontaneous bursts of… mind changing.

On another note. Eek! Exams next week! (And as ever I'm stooping to new and exciting levels of procrastination.)

And this is a founder fic, though you're unlikely to be able to tell from the prologue. I go where my mind takes me, blameth me not.

-

Prologue 

**-**

The tiniest grains of glass, racing unchecked through the waist of an hourglass. Seconds watch the passing of thousands and life rages forward in a tidal wave of broken shards, until, with the slightest whisper, it falls. Fragile as the walls of the smallest capillary it splits, bleeding a river of sand until life has lived its last.

-

"_Eight days, fourteen hours, thirty seven minutes and twenty six seconds." _

A figure, female and slim, stands at the brink of an abyss. In her hand there is a thin branch, in her heart a graveyard's wealth of grief.

_Somewhere beyond the darkness of night a clock is ticking. _

Her breathing is quick and shallow, fingers clenching and unclenching while bitter thorns pierce her skin. Her hands shake and eyes cloud but her back is straight and shoulders proud, she will not allow them to get the better of her.

_Pendulum swings back and forth, like the blade of an executioner's axe, certain and strong. Every blow rings true. _

Her gown is deep violet, black, a sure sign of royalty; about her neck a circlet of gold catches the light. At her feet the precipice gurgles and rushes, darkness dulling awareness of space and time as she watches the invisible promise of the river below.

Zooming out, like a messenger's hawk rising on the winds. There is a town below, and a grandfather clock sitting in a pub, ticking time away while punters down tall glasses of strange ales. 

She's steeling herself, you can see it in her eyes. Steeling herself for something she's longed to have the strength to do for _so long_. Slippered feet shuffle, crisp velvet fluttering absently in the breeze. She bites her lip, concentration seeming set to draw blood. It doesn't.

Two men hunched over the bar, talking with hushed voices. One's cloak is green, the other red. Their eyes glance back, straight at her while the clock pounds in her ears. Through her they see a great castle and the red one smiles. 

The water, fathoms below, swirls and hisses, like an army of snakes, more than willing to take her in their arms. She remembers the dream and is more certain than ever that this is what she is meant to do.

_The hag turns, glass eye boring into her, staring her down while wooden teeth leer. "Set you free, he will. Free as a raven, watcher of the dead." A death rattle of a laugh, blurring the dreamscape with its intensity. "Free and dark as a raven," the cackle rips through shadowing forms. Voice dancing with impish glee, "The snake will set you free…"_

She unfolds her arms (black wings of a raven), wind rising almost to greet her. Hood cast back her face is young and fair.

_Flying again. Shadows skate over a vast expanse of water, whispers in the forest and pale eyes watch on._

The trees creek behind her, a lonely spot, so far away from home and even the forest is unwilling to see her go.

_A cloud of dust, spinning to rise and turn and fall at booted feet. Familiar booted feet. Her own? _

Her horse, chestnut and gleaming with the exertion of running five miles swiftly, without rest. Hooves paw at the ground, impatient and oblivious. She hopes absently that he will not try to follow.

A great building, greater than anything she's seen at home, all the palaces of England cannot compare to the majesty of this fortress. (For it is a fortress, battlements and dormant power give away its true intentions.) 

Tears carve snakes of their own freely across her chalk white skin. She was the brightest in all the court and for that she finds herself damned. _("The daughter of Satan himself." They whisper it in dark corners and she does all she can to believe the deaths will come without her presence, that she alone is not the cause of her house's Curse.) _

_A voice can be heard above the creaking of the door (she strains and strains yet never has she seen past it), it whispers with the voice of prophecy: "Freedom in the arms of the snake, He alone will stop the curse." _Shadows falter as she awakens.

And now, she shifts her weight onto her toes, ready to fall and make the sacrifice she knows must be made. She leans into the wind and as the air fails to hold her she feels her feet slip, only then does she allow the sob to ring out, only then will she scream the agony of guilt from her chest.

Blood rushes to her head and in the spilt of a second she blacks out, even before she tastes the water and its rocks.

-

"Well, who do you reckon 'e is?"

"Who?"

The barman leans over further, nodding towards the cloaked figure knocking back a shot of whiskey. "'Im. Come outta nowhere 'e did. One o' them traveller types."

"What? A pilgrim?"

The barman cocks his head, "You not from round 'ere either, then? We don't get pilgrims 'ere, sir, least not them of Christ…" He casts a shifty look over his shoulder. "Bad stuff 'appens in these parts you 'ear. Lots o' bad people set to do bad thin's." He nods again in the direction of the cloaked man. "'E'll be one o' them. A right baddun."

The barman's grubby hand reaches into his shirt, pulling out a carved wooden crucifix. "I wouldn't live 'ere for love nor money if it weren't for this." He raises the pendant to his lips. "If you're new 'ere let me give you a word of advice," he glances again at the cloaked man, "don't take nuthin' from the likes of 'im, 'n if you're claimin' sanctuary at that church up there, don't go a-wonderin' into those woods, you 'ear me? Bad stuff 'appens up there."

"I understand…Thank you."

"Not at all, sir." The barman stands back up, returning to rubbing a used tankard with a grey rag. "So, sir, where 'bouts you from?"

There is an uncertain pause in which the cloaked man wipes his mouth, oblivious to the scrutiny of the barman and his customer. "Not from around here," the man says finally face twisting into a wry smile.

"Really, sir? An' where you 'eaded?"

He shifts on his stool, "Into Town. I have a few errands to make in Westminster."

"Westminster, you say? Not far from 'ere that isn't. Other side o' the river mind… Bin there once or twice. Looking for anythin' specific, like?"

Odd smile returning the man nods, "You could say that."

The barman looks up, eying the dark clothed stranger. "Where you from, anyway?

"Like I said, it's not around here."

Warily the barman asks, "An' you got a name?"

Silky smile, baring unnaturally white teeth, "I would tell you," he leans in, voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, "but then I would have to kill you." Smiling at the horrified look on the other man's face he pulls out a bag of coins. "Any idea when the next witch burning is around here?"

Chuckling nervously the barman points out the window. "You'd 'ave to ask up there, sir. Father Paten'll know." He pauses, looking thoughtful, "They took a girl the other day, the Avery's child, down the 'ill. Them are bad folk, them are. Believe in allsorts, but they were never a problem 'til tha' little girl got up an' burnt poor Missus Mason's 'air. Put 'er right on fire she did."

"Well, isn't that something…" Turning back to the bar he drops a number of small gold coins onto the counter. "For your troubles, sir, best ale I've had since I left the continent." And with a curt nod he turns to leave, boots clicking across the floor, cloak snapping around the door after him.

Eyes wide the barman watches. Shaking his head he mutters, "From the continent 'e says, 'ave to kill you… Up to no good that'un. 'E'll find 'imself swinging up at the city with talk like tha'… 'ave to kill you indeed…"

-

_My Dear Matilde,_

_There are so many things that do not fit together. I've tried to the very best of my abilities to make sense of the confusion that so frequently plagues me, but it seems as though I will wait forever for the mist to clear, for there to be any semblance of light in this sweeping darkness. _

_I confide in you, my dearest of cousins, friend and ally, in these bitter times, ever hoping to find an ally in a war I feel as though I fight alone. I look at what I've written now and realise how strange it must sound, but you, you know me as well as anyone and well enough to know it is not the world I speak as though I am up against, but the very nature of my current position, this 'Curse' that seems to follow me about. I have tried. I promised you that I would but it was all for nought._

_My parents seek only to help me, to find me a husband worthy of a princess. They try and they find the best of families, noble and rich with great expanses of land to their names, but the men, they are all pigs. Arrogant and altogether too proud. They think too much of their assets and not nearly enough of the feelings of others. But for all my disgust. For all my shameful anger and doubt, I promise you I never meant for this to happen._

_A boy died today. The same state as the others and his image haunts me even as I write. _There was so much blood.

_I feel I will never be clean. I feel I will never be whole. I feel I will never be safe with the others around me, that I cannot trust what my anger may unleash upon them. _

_I apologise. My writing is so ill structured, I imagine you find it quite a chore to read, but I beseech you. For all my faults, my sins and my failures. Please forgive me. _

_I have gone so far I will never be rid of it. It is not self hate or self-pity, it's like something burning so deep within me that is not even a part of me at all. It has a will of its own and if I were to lose control any further it would consume me entirely. I know that as long as I stay here no one will be free of this plague. Please know. I do what I do out of sheer desperation and a drive to cure the ills I have brought upon the people of my house. _

_Death is not something that should be taken lightly. I understand this and it is for that reason I am driven to take the actions you will no doubt hear of. All I want, my dear Matilde is to be free of the guilt. To be free of the suffering of other people. I wish… to escape. _

_I ask of you now to understand in yourself that nothing would sway my decision, all choices I have made have been planned and played over and over in my head until I could think of nothing else. Dreams and omens and even the travelling mystic coincide to one message, one path. _The arms of the Snake._ I must be strong and allow the river to take me. To wash away my hurts and guilt. To make it better. There is no other way for things to be. _

_When I am found the life will be gone from my body but you all will be saved from the Curse, if I burn for all eternity in a lake of red flame then I will suffer duly. This is my intended path and I will follow. _

_It is with a heavy but determined heart that I leave you, and as I sign 'Good Bye' my eyes are dry and resolute. _

_Yours most sincerely and eternally, _

Isabella Rowena Catherine Beaufort

-

Five miles east of the river locals named 'the Snake', there was a dark castle. High towers and thick walls, it was originally built on the border of the realm, a watch tower, a fortress with only one intention, but now, in times of dubious peace, while the barbarians that lived in the rugged lands north were suitably subdued, it housed a rich family, favoured by the King. Three floors up a steep staircase, facing the rising moon through uncommon glass paned windows there was a velvet four-poster. At the side of the empty bed a dark haired young woman allowed a sheet of parchment to fall from elegant white fingers. Silence echoed off stone walls until with a strangled gasp of a sob she fell heavily to her knees.

"_What have you done?"_

-

**AN: **I was bored with all my other fics and I wanted to read something with the four founders in but no one seems to have gotten any further than the fist few chapters on anything really worth reading. And yes, I'm a filthy hypocrite and this is not exactly historically accurate or brilliantly constructed, but it was fun to write.

If you've read it please review it.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR 

-

Scowling vaguely to himself the young man made his way over to the pub's scruffy stable yard. It was an unusual village, this one, he thought. A dirty row of houses backing onto the marshy remnants of a stream, the single tavern had no sleeping quarters so any traveller would be forced to stay in the old stone church, sitting isolated to the west of the other buildings, a ten minute walk up a barren hill. He'd stayed in many places across the sprawling ruins of the Holy Roman Empire but this small establishment had to be one of the saddest bunch of rocks he'd come across thus far.

"Pathetic, isn't it?" He muttered to his recently acquired black gelding, firmly tightening the girth strap and sending the tipsy stable hand off with a glare. "Half an hour short of London, burning five years olds under accusations of witchcraft, yet they're so bloody isolated they haven't even heard of the plague… and 'stay in the church' he tells me," a disgusted snort, "I think not."

Five minutes later found the same horse and rider thundering over a dark heath, chilling wind nipping at their heels as they followed an old Roman road up to the southern gate of the city.

"What can I do you for, Sire?"

"Get this horse rubbed down, I want him well stabled this time. _Fresh_ hay."

"Right you are Sire." The straggly looking boy ducked back into the crowd, scrambling over to the inn before popping back with an older boy who accepted a silver coin in return for taking the horse.

Casting a fugitive glance about him the man pulled his cloak closer and set off into the crowd gathered in the street market.

London was a strange place these days. Once Rome's greatest stronghold in all the Britannic Isles, it had been reduced to a dilapidated shell, used by muggles only for trading until reclaimed by Alfred the Great almost a century past. Since his death it had fallen back into the hands of the Danes and its future was in every way uncertain.

"_We live in changing times, boy."_

The words of his father resurfaced in his mind as he quickened his pace, swiftly passing over the river, remaining as inconspicuous as possible.

Changing times indeed.

_Dangerous_ times.

"Us wizards, people like you and I of magical descent, can sense a storm brewing. The times where we are looked upon with respect are all but up. The days of Merlin and his like are over. Roman Catholicism spreads and with it a discontent that has perhaps always lingered but never truly been realised." 

It had been years ago since he last spoke to his father, he'd travelled much of the known world since, learning more and more of the ancient magicks as he went. Greece, the remnants of Rome, Gaul, Bohemia even as far as Egypt, across the sea. He'd learnt much. The summoning of demons, the breaking of curses, the rites of necromancy and manuscripts of the Heathen gods. He'd discovered that the works of Merlin and other things his father taught him barely scratched the surface of the true potential of magic.

However, for all his research and experiences of new brands of magic, he found one thing consistent throughout the whole world. The growing prejudice. It seemed there was not one place the Church's movement had not reached. Muggles everywhere, who had once respected and revered magic, living alongside its possessors in harmony and understanding, now rose up to purge the earth of those who for so long had protected them.

"They say witchcraft is the work of the Devil. And that the world must be rid of it." 

He had been born into the highest of families, aristocrats, some of the few remaining steadily in Britain since the fall of Rome. Their house, once a Roman villa, had been transformed into a castle-fortress with the coming of Saxon and Viking invasions but with enough persuasive talking his great-grandfather had formed all sorts of alliances with the Kings, attending Court whenever possible and manipulating the new primitive parliament into doing things it never would have considered alone. The role had of course been passed from father to son but with the growing mistrust within the followers of the Church it seemed that this position, so openly exposed to muggles, would no longer remain safe.

"_Witch burnings, Salazar. It has begun in Rome and the notion is spreading thick and fast, just this morning four peasant folk in town were burnt at the stake. Four peasants registered under Ollivander's." _

He leaves the market, scarf drawn over his face as he quick marches through a dilapidated street, home to a large number of plague victims.

The older he grew the more aware he became of his parents increasing contempt of the muggles they had worked alongside for so long. The tolerating respect that had always been present in their talk of Alfred the Great, the first King of Britain, and his line of successors was no longer detectable as they spoke of their current sovereign.

"_It is spreading through Court. The new king has always taken kindly to such notions. No sense. I've said it before and I'll say it again, son, that man would not even have the practicality to breathe were it not for myself and my fellow councillors. It's no wonder London still remains in such a state with mindless muggles such as him on the throne…"_

Around the time of his coming of age his parents had told him much of the resistance movement they were part of. A group of wizards banding together in an attempt to hide the existence of magic from the rest of the world. The told him of how vital their role within the King's confidence was. How vital it was their magical breeding was not found out.

"_The Coven has been reassembled in Diagon Alley. Wards are being put up as we speak. The street is to be hidden from all muggles. Magic only. Do you understand?"_

He liked to think he understood their desperation, but the darker the situation grew the more isolated he became, moved from their home in the fens of East Anglia to a largish house between London and Winchester. His parents kept him well masked, he was barely even allowed to visit Court without an escort of undercover mage servants.

"_It's not hiding, merely a safety precaution. The King doesn't take kindly to anything out of the ordinary. Anything that could be taken as witchcraft is destroyed and that would include us. It is vital we remain unsuspected, we are the Coven's main spies in the King's inner circle. The only spies. Our cover must not be blown and as such you, as our son, must stay out of the public eye. It is for not only ours but your own safety, and that of the Wizarding World as a whole. Tonight will be your last official visit to Court, your mother has had robes laid out for you upstairs, and Salazar, do try to be polite…"_

Kept within their own lands and nowhere else he practiced the magic his father taught him in secrecy within the walls of their house. People were told he was sickly, taken to bed permanently with illnesses. This isolation meant he was ever uncertain of exactly what was happening outside. He had no idea of how dire the situation was, with his parents rarely even coming home, until one night, on the dark of the moon when his mother and father returned, after a full fortnight, out of breath and looking less like the noble, refined figures of his childhood than he had ever seen them before.

"_He knows! … No! I don't know how, only that you must get away! Take my horse- no! Take a servant's horse! Less noticeable. Ride fast until dawn breaks, north. No! South! Across the sea, into Gaul. Away from here… No. Your mother and I must stay. We must send out final warnings to the Coven… We are disarmed. We have no time until they arrive, they think you're away in the country! They won't start looking until tomorrow, please, son. Leave us."_

He had done as they said. Rode fast and never looked back while the sky remained dark, but when he reached the sea, clouds tinting pink with the rosy fingers of dawn, something stopped him boarding the ship. Turning his horse back, mind racing with the words his father had spoken, he rode north disguised as a servant of the King and it was as such that he gained entrance to the witch burning taking place a mile west of his parents house. As he watched the kindling crackle as smoke mingle with screams he promised to never look back again. He would continue their cause eventually, but before then he needed the follow the last wishes of his father, he needed to find the person he was without his family's wealth and status backing him. He needed to _become someone else_ and gather the knowledge to strike back,

"_Patter Nostrum…. To your altar we bring you two fiends from the depths of Hell itself, agents of the devil doing his work in your sacred lands. Our Father, it is in your name we shall _burn these abominations…"

But now, several years since, at the age of seventeen, he left the country, he was back. Back in London and on a mission.

He'd arranged with another wizard he'd found in Rome, a man from a family much like his, of the Coven, up in York, to meet outside Gringotts Bank in London. Godric Gryffindor, he said his name was. They'd spoken briefly of their stories and backgrounds, touching on plans that would have to be made when back at home, but in a pilgrimage hostelry, surrounded with Catholic monks it had not been safe. So, they arranged that a year to that day they would return to London, meet in the historical street of Diagon Alley and discuss what would need to be done to secure the future of magic, before it showed signs of dying out for good.

A fire crackles in the edges of his subconscious, punctuated by the writhing of smoke shrouded figures and the sharp, ear splitting sound of tortured screams. He slams to a halt, eliciting a startled gasp from a nearby mother with infant. Breathing fast and shallow he physically shakes his head to end the stream of memories.

With a frustrated growl he kicks the wall and throws open the doors of the Leaky Cauldron.

"What?" he hisses at the gaggle of creatures round the bar eyeing him oddly.

The only fully magical inn in the country. He remembers being so baffled when his father bought him here, dressed in his best robes like he was meeting something more important than royalty.

"_Father… it's got straw on the floor."_

_The man had just laughed. "What you'll find beyond these walls are more noble than any King that sits on the throne, more precious and beautiful than anything money could buy you. Magic. Pure and undiluted with muggles and their beliefs. This is where we got you your wand, boy…"_

"_What? Here? In this filthy pub?" The disdainful, shocked face of a young boy stared dumbfounded around and the grubby looking (and obscenely loud) customers._

_With a satisfied chuckle, "No, this is simply the gateway, guarded as I told you, with every protective spell known to man. What I really bought you here for… is just through this door…"_

A soft intake of breath as stones shift at the lightest touch, revealing something he wouldn't have dreamed possible. "Wow…" 

It's been years, but the inn looks no cleaner, the barman just as old. Filling a pint of ale behind the old wooden bar he frowns at the young, aristocratic man in travelling robes.

"You been here before, boy? You look awful familiar."

The traveller looks up and grins a grin that tells tales of things he's plotted from months and years. "You knew my father, once upon a time. I'm here to rejoin the Coven."

There are hushed whispers followed by abrupt silence. Suddenly he has everyone in the room's attention.

Feeling awkward he looks around, "Did I say something wrong?"

The landlord snaps at the drinkers and they quickly turn back to their tankards, but it's clear they're listening hard.

"You keep that talk of the Coven quite, you hear? The Coven's not been running for three years now, boy. Since the burning of the Slytherins and Jacobsons… It's a lost cause." He looks straight at Salazar, straight through him with stern mismatching eyes, "I dunno where you've been, boy, but there ain't no Coven anymore and it's unlikely there will be again. Muggles are drivin' us out. Diagon Alley's just about tha only safe place in this city if you can't hide your magic, an' without the Coven most people don't even know it exists."

Stunned, he struggles a response, "But why's nothing being done?"

The landlord's blue left eye turns on him with something akin to pity (the right brown one is focussed on a powder blue cloaked figure sidling shiftily along the back wall), "It's too dangerous, boy. The richer families are drawin' themselves out of the royal circles, guarding their properties and the like. Other folk are moving here, like refugees, they are. The streets been expanded more than once to hold them all. Some people are worrying we might get under siege, but we've been too clever, see. These guards will hold muggles out for a good millennia yet." He stands up straight, casting a glance towards the door. "But you be careful, boy, don't go a-speaking about the Coven 'round here. They say it's been cursed. Its members are all but gone. Dead or dying. There may yet be a way to save witchcraft, Mister, but resistance ain't it. We'd be fighting a losing battle. So you keep talk of your Coven under wraps, yeah? And try thinking of another way to save us all."

In a mild form of shock he nods.

"What's your name, boy?"

He starts and stares at the man before answering, "Slytherin. Salazar Slytherin. And I've been away for a long time."

The pub's still and silent again but he's finished his ale with his dark cloak around him he's leaving, tapping the stones to gain himself access to the street beyond.

"Dear Circe," he mutters, staring at the bumbling mass of people barging their way to and fro among the shops and stalls, loud bangs and hoots of owls rising over the impossible cloud of noise that rages up from the crowd which seems to stretch forever into the distance. "Changing times _indeed_."

-

"Her name is Matilde Ravenclaw…"

"What's wrong with her?"

"Wrong? Nothing's wrong, per sae. Just suffering from a bit of depression, melancholy like. Excess of black bile the doctor was saying but her mother tells us it'll pass in time 'n it was grief that caused it."

A mumbled question, asked around a mouthful of food.

"Well, you see, recently she lost her cousin. Close as sisters the two of them were. Family are trying to pass it off as a nasty accident, but there was a note and in the kitchens people are pretty certain it was a suicide."

"_Suicide?" _Soup spraying he lowers his head in apology as the plump woman facing him shakes her head disapprovingly.

"I know," she continues, "No wonder the Master's trying to keep it all under wraps. He's not directly related to the girl, but all the same…"

"Not directly related?" He swallows first this time and is given an indulgent smile for the effort.

"There's hope for you yet, young man, and o' course not! He's Miss Matilde's father's brother and Miss Isabelle (royalty, dontcha know) is her mother's sister's daughter. See."

"Yeah, I see."

"Well, yes. A mighty kafuffle if ever I saw one and poor Miss Matilde's stuck in the middle of it. Poor girl spends every waking minute working in the library (she likes her books she does) looking up new spells and potions. I don't reckon she thinks any of it will help, but she tries all the same, take her mind off of it all I 'spose. Always did love to learn, unlike that cousin of hers."

"Her cousin didn't like books?"

"Not at all, doubt she would even learn to read were it not for her father's insistence. He was a muggle, you see. Cousin of the King. Fell for the Mistress's sister and they got married… he was never allowed to know she was a witch though."

"That's terribly unorthodox…"

"I know. She very nearly wasn't allowed to marry him, but she said she was in love. Thing is, Isabelle, their daughter, she never knew she had magic. Coven or not, you know how it is these days, the whole family would have been burned, so it was never spoken of in their house. And that little girl grew up untrained… They say her mother wasn't awful bright. Mistress tried to warn her of the dangers, but she's adamant like. Wouldn't budge, and look where it got them."

"She killed herself 'cause she didn't know she had magic?"

"No. No, no. She died because of what her magic was _doing_ without her control. Thought she was cursed (in the full muggle sense of the word). Her parents were trying to get her to marry 'n she didn't want to, and one day she got angry and a candelabra fell on the man in question. Impaled as he sat. They said it could have happened to anyone, the rope being frayed 'n all, but she knew better. Knew it was her that was doing it. Took two more deaths like that 'til she took matters into her own hands, or should I say the Snake's." A sharp chuckle.

Eyes wide and utterly distracted from his broth the man muttered, "That's terrible."

"Is, isn't it. Shows you what happens when parents don't educate their children, see? There are probably a lotta children like her, injuring stuff all over the place 'cause their parents don't teach them right."

"Well, my Mary and me, we teach our children just the way we should. Just like any responsible parent would."

"Well, that's all well and good, you both being magical, but what happens when people start marrying off with muggles, eh? Then where will we be. Can't tell them 'bout the magic. Can't teach the children and in the end people are dying 'cause it's not working out quite the way they'd hoped. Something'll have to be done, mark my words."

"Yeah? And who's gonna do it? Can't tell the King nothing, and who else'll get stuff done, with the Coven gone?"

"You can't go a-talking about the Coven, Fredrick. You know that. Upsets the Mistress, like. You know what happened to her parents down in London."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, wasn't thinking."

"Too right you weren't, now off with you, boy. An' next time you come I'll remember you like more of those mushrooms in your soup."

"Thank you, ma'am."

The visitor bows and the cook slaps him round the head with a dishtowel. "Off with you, lad. And say hello to your wife and little Eleanor."

"Will do, ma'am."

Fredrick sends the cook one last grin before heading out the door into the rest of the house, heading towards the front door of the castle (the mote meant the only 'back door' was underground and remarkably damp). A dark haired girl passes him en route and he tips his hat to her.

"Mistress Matilde."

She nods politely back, her maidservant sending him a shy smile.

As he waits for a servant to unlock the main gate for him he mounts his horse, _it's been a strange day_, he thinks. As a descendent of the village's most prominent magical family he has been a friend of the proprietors of this house since he came of age. Him and his wife were often allowed up to the castle to share more rare potions ingredients, but when Miss Isabelle moved in with her muggle father from the south, magic was kept far quieter in the building and now he only came up when there were muggle messages intended for the Ravenclaw family.

Today had been one of those occasions. A herald of the King had bought a letter intended for the Master of the house. It was military and Fredrick could only imagine it had something to do with his brother, the Mistress's husband, Godfrey, who'd gone to war for the King almost a full year ago. _Hope he's alright_, he thinks briefly as the gates swing back, baring the rode back down to the village, Godfrey had always been a good man, Fredrick's father in particular respected him a great deal.

Kicking his horse into action he set off down the hill, following the familiar path as the sun set behind him.

-

**AN:** Set roughly in late 900's AD, but don't hold me to that as I know very little about the time and cannot be arsed to research much. Hope you're slightly clearer on what happened in the first chapter now… Possibly. Or maybe I've just bored you all to death :P Oh well.

If you've read it, please **review** it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR.**

"I can't stay here, I'm losing my mind! I keep seeing her, following me, reflections in windows, puddles, even my dinner plate! It's as if she's standing behind me, whispering in my ear and yet I can never make out the words." Blue eyes wide the girl turns to her maidservant. "I can't go on like this. She's barely been gone a day and I'm falling apart."

Before the other girl had a chance to reply there was a knock at the chamber's door. "Mistress Matilde. Your uncle wants to see you in his study."

Turning back to her bed she closed her eyes, nodding silently. "Tell him I'm coming."

Knuckles white around the post of her bed she said nothing as her maid finished lacing her corset.

"Uncle, you called for me."

"Yes, I did." The man in the high backed wooden chair sat behind her father's desk, toying with his father's favourite phoenix feather quill. He had her father's features, the same cool blue eyes and straight nose, but for all the resemblance he was _not _her father.

Sinking into a polite curtsy she waited as he dismissed the servants before sitting down in the chair opposite him.

"I have something to tell you… Please sit down."

Already seated she gave him a strange look.

"Oh yes, of course. Well. I – You see, I have something to tell you. I have just spoken with your mother, she has retired upstairs… I. Well, that is. I received a letter today. From the King." Eyes looking everywhere but her he searched for the words he needed, chest tightening she was certain it couldn't be anything good.

"Yes…" she prompted weakly.

Resolute he looked up, holding her gaze with a conviction that almost scared her. "I know you've taken the loss of your cousin very badly," he paused, "I understand that you're under a lot of pressure and I told you at the funeral that I would do everything within my power to care for you and your mother in my brother's absence… I just want you to know that especially after what I am to tell you, nothing in what I said has changed. Since the plague took my wife I consider you and your mother as much a family as my own and I promised Godfrey I would ensure your safety."

Worry gracing her features and cold fingers of dread encircling her heart she whispered, "Uncle, what's going on?"

Her uncle had never been a softly spoken man, nor one to shy away from the truth, but what he said next was so quiet it could barely be heard. "I received a letter. From the King." Fingers clenching he bit out, "Your father fell in battle. Took an arrow to the chest in Normandy. He was dead before he hit the ground."

"Oh… Is he alright?"

Her uncle looked up, worry tracing his features. "Matilde. He _died_."

Mind racing and a dull throbbing starting at her temple, the shock was so deep it didn't even register how foolish her question had been.

"They say it was a noble death, defending the bridge-"

"-An arrow? From a muggle? But, but… He could have… what, didn't he-?"

"I know." His tone no longer clipped, tense and on the verge of breaking, "You know what his ethics were. No magic against those without magic. He fought the muggle way out of principle."

Glassy gaze straight ahead she shook her head. "But. Why… why, I… I don't understand."

"There's to be a memorial service for him and all the others that died at the battle in London. You will accompany your mother and I."

"Did he even know what happened to Isabelle?" Snapping out of her trance she stared straight at her uncle.

"He had no idea, the letter wasn't due to arrive until this morning. The weather was too rough for a hawk so I sent it with a herald."

There was an awkward silence until with a soft choking laugh she broke down, tears flooding over while the man on the other side of the desk watched without a word.

Godric Gryffindor was a tall man.

Lounging smartly against a thick white marble column he eyed Salazar as he pushed his way through the crowd.

"You're late, Slytherin."

"Don't give me that, Gryffindor, I'm five minutes early and you know it."

The man grinned, bowing deep before pulling Salazar into a rough hug. "How long have you been back? You look like you just rolled off your horse."

Slytherin glared, disentangling himself from his friend. "Maybe I have. How long have you been back in the country? You look far better settled than you should."

Gryffindor laughed. "You like?" He asked, showing off the set of bright red, clearly newly tailored, robes. "I was feeling patriotic."

Salazar huffed. "You would."

"I take it you've heard the news then?" the other man's face sobered. "They're quick to correct you round here, aren't they?"

"I can't quite get my head around it, to be honest. Without the Coven I find it very difficult to see a way out of this situation…"

Godric shrugged. "We could always re-found it," he commented as they began walking through the crowd.

"And who'd join? A few crazy loyalists? The barman said they were all dead!"

Godric shook his head. "Not all of them. I've been back several weeks and I've gone through every record I can get my hands on. By all accounts they've mostly gone into hiding. When your parents died all plans of overthrowing the King were abandoned, they were so high profile news of their death reached every corner of the island. They completed the wards on Diagon but the whole thing pretty much dissolved after that… The Ravenclaws and Prewetts were among the few high blooded ones left, but I heard this morning that Godfrey Ravenclaw died in battle a few days ago, and the Prewetts have concentrated all their efforts on keeping this place afloat," he gestured at the surrounding cobbled street. "They don't want to know about any more resistance plots."

"What do you suggest we do then?" Salazar asked quietly, kicking a stray pebble across the street.

"I don't know, friend. But I'm going to the funeral of Ravenclaw tomorrow, and you're more than welcome to tag along."

"You knew him?" he asked, surprised.

"No," responded the other, "but as the sole surviving male in my family it's my duty." He paused. "He was a friend of my father. I met his daughter once. They had a castle up by Hadrian's Wall."

Salazar paused, looking up at the other wizard. "There's a daughter?"

Godric frowned, "Of course. Her name's Matilde… But if you're thinking what I think you're thinking I suggest you stop, Slytherin. The last thing she needs right now is an obscure suitor."

"Suitor?" he questioned. "I meant, would she help us?"

Gryffindor stared. "Help us do _what_?"

"Change things," he gestured at the street, "She has as much reason to as any of us, with all that's happened."

"I don't want to be here."

Her mother ignored her, they'd had this argument the whole journey down the country, a week of solid travelling, and by now Lady Ravenclaw had heard enough of her daughter's moaning.

"It's your father's funeral," was all she said in reply.

"That's not what I meant. I mean I don't want to be _here_," she gestured at the dirty street outside. "I can see why Isabelle hated her old home so much, this city is miserable." She scowled as a passing beggar spat into the gutter. "It's foul."

The funeral was to be held in a small town in the Kingdom of Wessex, near the border into Sussex. These Kingdoms were the realms of muggle tribes and meant little to wizards, who for the most part functioned as their ancestors had in Roman-ruled Britannia, but all the same the division made travel difficult. Broomsticks were a relatively new invention that the elders of the Ravenclaw family regarded with deep suspicion, but after hours and hours in a small horse-drawn carriage Maltilde was seriously considering the purchase of one, should they pass Diagon Alley on the way home.

It was late by the time they reached the site of the burial. Matilde remembered little of the ceremony besides holding her mother and hoping no more pain would be force itself upon her family. She also knew that now, with her father dead before bearing a son, it would be up to her to form an alliance to keep her family afloat. She needed to marry or her bloodline would die out. As her father's ashes were collected from the smoking pyre she held back tears, leading her mother back to the hostelry in which they intended to stay.

"Is that her?"

"Yes."

"She looks depressed… and intense."

"She'd just lost her father and cousin. You could show a little sympathy."

"How did her father end up fighting down here, anyway? Thought you said they lived up North? That's all Dane rule isn't it?"

"He formed alliance with Wessex back in the days of the Coven... His brother-in-law's royalty. He had no choice but to fight for them."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

"So, are we going to be introduced?"

There was a pause in which Gryffindor stopped and stared at his feet. "You're not going to let this idea rest until you've had a go are you?"

"No," responded Slytherin.

He sighed, "Fine. But be _polite_ and no mention of the Coven, overthrowing the King or forming a New World Order. Understood?"

"Of course."

The women were walking out towards the road by the time Godric caught up with them. "Lady Ravenclaw? I was wondering if I could have a word with you." As she turned to face him he stepped into a neat bow, "My father was a friend of your husband's and I feel it my duty to express my sympathy for your loss in person," he nodded slightly to Slytherin before taking the widow by the arm.

"So…" Slytherin slipped into step next to Matilde, "Miss Ravenclaw?"

"Yes," she responded quietly, in no mood for small talk, even after her little revelation about marriage and with the knowledge that this young man was hardly bad looking and had seemed pretty well bred. "Can I help you?"

He smiled, "Just trying to be polite. Conversation we call it. You're welcome to play along."

She stared at him and he grinned wider, flashing white teeth. "Do I know you?" she asked at last.

"Slytherin," he offered, kissing her hand, "Salazar Slytherin. I was rather hoping you'd do me the honour of accompanying me back to the town. I've been told many good things about you."

Brows raising Matilde reclaimed her hand, "I suppose so."

Slytherin smirked, Motioning towards the road, "Well, shall we?"

**If you've read it please review it. **

And no. This chapter wasn't brilliant. Damn plots, so restricting, this is why I tend to stick to rambling one-shots that go nowhere at all. There's no shoddy, unnatural dialogue and strange 200mile jumping scene changes.


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